Dear St. Francis:

I must confess that I first learned of your existence just this past week, when my muse and fellow writer reminded me of the Catholic tradition of saints.

“A patron saint of writers? Come on,” I said in disbelief.

“There’s a saint for everything!” Melissa declared.

Thanks to Google (which, by the way, shares its first letters with your boss), we found your story immediately. So I ask, dear St. Francis, where have you been all my life?

Hearing about your difficulties made me feel much better about my own drudgery, which is nothing compared to your mission, I should say. But if you can write thousands of leaflets by hand and deliver them through miles of snow with bleeding feet, surely I can finish my second novel.

Your appearance this week brought blessings all around. For just two days after we found you, Melissa learned that her first essay (a literary tour-de-force, by the way) was accepted by a professional journal. St. Francis, please accept our heartfelt thanks for your role in this victory, and as we all have other such belles-lettres in submission purgatory, please do us a favor and give those pieces a similar nudge toward publication heaven.

Saying a prayer right now…